


Do You Mind?

by GubraithianFire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Kissing, Awkwardness, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Fix-It, Fluff, It's For a Case, Love Confessions, M/M, Mary Morstan is Sebastian Moran, PTSD Sherlock, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars, Sharing a Bed, season 4 doesnt exist, season 4 not compliant, set after s3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-07 23:19:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15918291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GubraithianFire/pseuds/GubraithianFire
Summary: Sherlock and John share a bed.Yeah, a new trope---a small fic for my lovely girlfriend.





	Do You Mind?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hammasluu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hammasluu/gifts).



> I can't believe I am writing for the sherlock fandom again... I lost all my inspiration after s4 but now my fiancée is reading johnlock fics again and i want to give her a gift... she doesn't like smut (so don't expect it), and she likes getting together and cheesy tropes so expect an abudance of them!! 
> 
> I apologise for all and any typos, but IT IS ALMOST 4am AND I AM SO FUCKING TIRED!! 
> 
> @ julia, you will wake up to this, I have been up all night writing it, this is for you. I love you, my partner in crime <3
> 
> and ily all, pls enjoy!!

John sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with a furrowed brow.

“There must be a mistake. We are-“

“We are not couple,” Sherlock chimes in.

John falters a moment. Sherlock's tone was annoyed, dry, and something else. John can’t quite pinpoint what else. He wants to say disappointment, but it’s Sherlock, after all. He doesn’t… feel things that way.

“I am sorry… we only have that room left,” The sweet lady tells them, “I am terribly sorry for the misunderstanding.”

John scratches at the nape of his neck. “It’s okay, I guess I can sleep on the floor.”

The lady nods, smiling faintly, while Sherlock turns around with a sweep of his long Belstaff.

“Of course, John, because the cold floor is a preferable option to sharing a bed with me.”

With this, the detective disappears up the stairs, leaving a flustered John behind, exchanging awkward smiles with the lady.

“He’s quite something, isn’t he?” She says, trying to disperse the tense air left behind by Sherlock.

“Oh yeah, a real prima donna,” John says, but there is a softness to his tone that makes the lady smile.

“My wife is just the same,” She shakes her head, her lips still curled up.

“Oh?”

She is about to answer him when a thundering voice reaches them from atop the staircase.

“JOHN! Hurry.”

John’s heart skips a beat and he startles. He starts running up the stairs two steps at a time, carrying both his duffel bag and Sherlock’s (much) bigger case.

Sherlock is waiting for John at the door.

“I didn’t get the key, and we need to study the new evidence we found today as soon as possible.”

John shakes his head with an amused smile. _Genius my arse_ , John thinks but doesn’t say, _Can’t even remember a bloody key._

He unlocks the door as Sherlock studies his face like he would a fascinating specimen.

“You’re smiling,” He states.

“Excellent deduction,” John grins, and opens the door.

They enter the room, a simple double with a desk, a chair, two bedside tables with lamps, and a small bathroom.

Sherlock throws his Belstaff on the double-sized bed (ominous in just its presence, John thinks,) and sits down at the desk, extending his arm, silently demanding for the witness’s and theft victim’s statement he and John have collected that afternoon in Sussex.

John sits on the bed as Sherlock works, silently and meticulously, with his ankles crossed and his fingers linked behind his head.

He likes this. This calm, peaceful, simple… being together. Just him and Sherlock, Sherlock working and John providing the usual insight or dumb idea that always puts Sherlock on the right path to find a solution to the enigma at hand.

He thinks of Mary.

Of the tired, awkward, spiteful silence that permeated the air after he faked forgving her for shooting Sherlock.

He had done so just because Sherlock and Mycroft had told him to, explaining to him they would expose Mary as one of Jim Moriarty’s underlings. And they did.

Mary was now in prison, and John’s now two-year-old daughter, Rosie, was being looked after by Molly as he and Sherlock embarked on a case that would have given John some pocket money that would have been very useful indeed to buy Rosie a Christmas present.

John thinks of when he met Mary. Of her being a fresh balm to his wounds. For the sense of grief, of guilt, of longing and regret he had experienced after Sherlock’s “death”.

He thinks of when he had cracked the proposal, just because it was what you’re supposed to do, fall in love with a girl and get married. He thinks of always having to put up a nice-guy façade in front of Mary.

_You never had to be anyone else but you, in front of Sherlock_.

John shuts his eyes. He is not going there.

Before Sherlock’s death, maybe, perhaps, John might have hoped that-

“John, come see this,” Sherlock demands, snapping John away from his thoughts.

John lets out a relieved sigh. He really doesn’t want to go there.

Sherlock starts explaining his findings, but John’s mind is wandering. How pathetic is he? He has known Sherlock for almost six years, and he is still in love with him as that night when Sherlock cured his psychosomatic limp.

There, John is in love with Sherlock. So much it hurts, so much it leaves a bitter taste on his tongue, so much that John doesn’t know what to do with all that love.

He can only support Sherlock as much as he can, because, as much as he loves Sherlock, he cannot change him.

Sherlock is married to his job after all, and John would never come before that.

Sherlock had proven that, time and time again, drugging John up to prove a point, and other unpleasant instances.

John was always second best. And he would have always been. Furthermore, Sherlock did not have romantic feelings.

John knows this because last year, after the Mary’s aftermath, he and Sherlock had gotten drunk, and Sherlock had confessed he had never been in love. At almost forty.

_So, John, there you have it. Just give up and find Rosie a mother_.

Sherlock snaps a “John? John! Are you listening? We need to go out now!”

Sherlock grabs his coat and hurries outside, John following in his stride in a confused daze.

“I have reason to believe our suspect will be close by in the next three hours. He has already seen us so we should be careful not to show our faces.”

John nods, and he and Sherlock walk close to each other in the chilly air of November. However, John is not feeling cold at all, since the back of his hand is brushing against the detective’s, and that is enough to send his heart aflutter, like a sodding school girl.

They hide in a dark alley and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And then wait some more.

John is almost falling asleep when Sherlock suddenly jerks up. His blue, green eyes are focused on something behind John’s shoulder, so John turns.

“Idiot,” Sherlock hisses, before kissing John.

John is too startled for a second there to react at all, but when he comes to, he shoves Sherlock away with all his might. Sherlock falls on his bum with a soft _thud_ , and looks up at John with huge, questioning eyes.

“Are you out of your damn mind?”

Sherlock is staring up at him, his cheeks read from the cold, his lower lip trembling, his eyes shining. If John didn’t know better, he would swear Sherlock is about to cry.

But John _does_ know better, so he just holds out his hand to lift Sherlock up.

Sherlock viciously bats his hand away. “Good job, John,” He snarls, “Our suspect has fled. Let’s go back to the hotel to study a new move.”

The detective turns around and starts trotting towards their place, and John relaxes against a wall, his legs feeling like jelly. With a trembling hand, he touches his lips.

That was all he had ever wanted, but not like this. Not for a case, not for playing pretend. John wants the real deal.

But that is wishing for the impossible, John knows it, and so he sighs, and starts following Sherlock.

\---

Sherlock walks as fast as he can, his breathing slightly erratic. He can’t hear John walking behind him, which is a relief in per se, since Sherlock is on the verge of an anxiety attack.

A single tear streams down his face, before Sherlock steels himself, and his usual aplomb comes back.

Fuck John.

He would not even pretend-kiss him. What, if he is so repulsed by Sherlock why doesn’t he go back to the stupid job at the clinic? Does he crave adrenaline so much that he puts up with disgusting Sherlock?

What. Is. It.

Sherlock snarls, passing his fingers through his hair.

He gets into the small hotel and up the stairs, before realising he doesn’t have the key.

John gets there a full ten minutes later.

“Took your time.” Sherlock is furious. He is furious at John for being his first damn love, for being the love of his goddamn life, and not reciprocating his feelings.

“Sorry, sorry,” John mutters, and opens the door.

Sherlock enters, throwing coat and scarf on the floor. John cleans up after him, like he is his goddamn _wife_ , and goes to the bathroom, without speaking a word.

It was awfully stupid of Sherlock to kiss John. The dumbest idea he had ever had. He was a downright _cretin_.

What had gone through his mind, at the moment, was something along the lines of “It’s never gonna happen anyway, and I have the perfect excuse right now to taste John’s lips.”

Which is so… weak and stupid and embarrassing and ridiculous.

Feeling like a child, Sherlock sits at the desk, burying his face in his hands.

“Still working on the case?” John asks, exiting the bathroom in his pyjamas, and Sherlock almost lets out a bitter laugh. John is so dense.

Like the night they got drunk after putting Mary behind bars.

Sherlock had confessed he had never been in love, and John had been surprised. Sherlock was wasted, almost as much as during John’s stag night.

And, like that night, he had flirted with John.

But John was as dense as brick, completely clueless to Sherlock advances. That night Sherlock had cried himself to sleep, as the alcohol wore off.

Sherlock looks up and nods.

“Nope,” John says, “You are not working this late. Go to bed.”

“Where’re you gonna sleep?” Sherlock asks, a feeling of uneasiness at the pit of his stomach.

John looks awfully awkward, as he rubs his cheek with an awry smile.

“We can share the bed, maybe? There’s not really space on the floor and it’s big enough anyway.”

Sherlock cannot breathe. “That is amenable,” he says, to which John smiles.

“Right or left side?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Whatever, you decide.”

“Giving me all the power, huh?”

John rubs his hands together.

“I will sleep by the door’s side,” He declares.

Sherlock nods, and goes back to looking at the papers scattered on the desk.

“Tsk tsk tsk,” John puts two hands on his shoulders.

“Go brush your teeth and then off to bed you go.”

“Are you my mother?”

John chuckles fondly, “Come on, go.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and goes brushing his teeth. He just strips to his boxer briefs and exits the bathroom.

John is already in bed, his back turned to him. Sherlock takes one steadying breath and settles under the cover, his back to John’s.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“Nothing.”

Sherlock doesn’t even know what he was gonna say.

He and John haven’t slept in the same room, hell, the same house, since forever, he and Rosie living in another apartment close to 221B.

John doesn’t know about the nightmares.

Sherlock still dreams about the tortures. About what he has gone through during those two years away from home. About killing Magnussen, the conscience of having blood on his hands tormenting him almost every night.

John doesn’t know Sherlock is still terrified of Moriarty.

John just… he doesn’t know shit.

Sherlock shuts his eyes tight, his heart pounding like crazy in his ribcage, echoing, dull and fast, in his ears.

John stirs, his foot touching Sherlock’s, but he immediately retracts it.

Sherlock pretends his heart isn’t broken in two, and brings his knees closer to his chest, in a foetal position.

This is ludicrous, it’s just John, for God’s sakes!

Silence reigns in the small room, heavy and suffocating, so Sherlock does his best to fall asleep. The sooner he sleeps, the sooner he will be up and on his way back to 221B.

221B.

John’s chair is still there. Sherlock doesn’t let anyone but John sit on it. He is such a foolish sentimental.

Slowly, his mind gets heavy, his thoughts sparse, and he finally, _finally_ , falls asleep, his last coherent thought being that John would look good in the morning, all groggy from sleep, waking up beside Sherlock. He doesn’t wanna miss it.

\---

John wakes up when Sherlock punches him in the face.

“Sher-” John starts to complain, when he notices that Sherlock is also moaning softly and thrashing around.

John is a PTSD expert. He _knows_ nightmares.

His first instinct is to wake Sherlock up, but he knows better. So he waits it out, murmuring reassuring words in the most soothing voice he can find, rubbing circles on Sherlock’s exposed chest.

It’s then that he sees, when his eyes adjust to the dark, the wound Mary had left on his best friend’s chest. His jaw sets, his teeth grinding together.

In his thrashing, Sherlock turns on his side, panting like crazy.

It’s then that John sees them. At first he thinks it is a trick of the light, so he turns on his bedside table lamp.

The wind gets knocked out of him, the floor swallows him whole. He feels like he is falling, spiralling down towards a dangerous darkness.

Sherlock slowly comes to, and he obviously notices the light, so he asks, “John?”

“Who did this to you,” John asks, voice of steel, tracing the outlines of Sherlock’s many scars on his back.

Sherlock stiffens up, not replying.

“Sherlock,” John implores, and Sherlock sighs.

“It happened when I was away, those two years you thought I was dead. They captured and tortured me,” He explains, matter-of-factly. John feels so mad he could cry.

He closes his fist, his knuckles resting on Sherlock’s mangled back.

“Why did you never tell me?”

“I…” Sherlock pauses. “I never thought you’d care. Or that you’d care too much and try to vindicate me.”

John scutters closer to Sherlock, his need to protect him growing stronger by the second. He rests his face against Sherlock’s back.

“You’re right, my love. I’d kill those bastard.”

Sherlock stops breathing, and it takes John a few seconds to realise what he has just called Sherlock. He jumps back, Sherlock frozen in his spot.

“Fuck, Sherlock, I’m sorry,” John says, “I didn’t-”

“Don’t say it,” Sherlock murmurs, so softly John almost doesn’t hear him.

“Say what?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath. A few seconds pass. John thinks he is not gonna answer, when Sherlock says, “That you didn’t mean it.”

“Sherlock, Sherlock look at me please.”

Sherlock doesn’t move.

“Sherlock, please, I don’t understand what’s going on and I need to see your face.”

Sherlock must read John’s desperation, because, slowly, he turns.

His face _kills_ John.

Sherlock is crying. Silent tears stream down his marble features, and he even sniffles. He looks so fucking human and vulnerable.

John has never seen him like this. And yet, he has seen him like this a thousand times, but, he realises, he had never noticed.

Like puzzle pieces, everything falls together.

Sherlock leaving the wedding early, for example. How could have John not realised?

“Sherlock, I need you to answer me now. No questions, no avoiding. Okay?”

Sherlock nods faintly.

John steels himself. “How long?”

Sherlock’s eyes slam shut, and he brings his hands to his heart, as if it is hurting.

“The day I met you. We were laughing by the stairs in 221B, we made a joke about invading Afghanistan, then Angelo brought your cane. That’s when I knew.”

John is speechless. His breathing becomes erratic, and he shakes his head.

“No, no…” he whispers.

“I am _sorry,_ John,” Sherlock spits out, “I am _sorry_ I fell in love with you and ruined everything. You are welcome to stop talking to me now. I am going out for a smoke.”

This said, Sherlock sits up and is going to get up, when John stops him by grabbing his hand. Sherlock stills.

Painfully slowly, John laces their fingers together.

“All this time… We could have been together. But I was an idiot. I ignored all the signs because it was convenient. I am sorry, Sherlock. I am so, so sorry.”

Sherlock’s breathing starts growing louder and more and more uneven. He lets out a sob, to then bite down on his hand.

_Panic attack_ , John’s mind supplies. He launches himself at Sherlock, hugging him tight.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. Hey, hey, breathe, come on, breath in with me. One, two. One, two.”

Sherlock slowly calms down, sagging in John’s arms. They stay like this a little, hugging each other tight, breathing in each other’s skin.

“John,” Sherlock sniffles, “John…”

John gets up from the bed, and takes Sherlock to the bathroom with him. He sits him down on the edge of the tub, and fills a plastic cup with tap water.

“Drink up,” He says softly, and Sherlock, wonder of wonders, complies.

John kneels in front of him.

“What do we do now?”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock snarls, playing dumb on purpose.

John decides to be patient.

“About us, of course.”

“There’s no _us_ ,” Sherlock says, bitterly, crushing the plastic cup in his hand. “We missed that train, John.”

John has never been hurt by five words like this.

“Why are you saying this?”

Sherlock huffs. “You have Rosie, plus we are old. Let’s just settle for a life as colleagues.”

John is actually relieved.

“Rosie already considers you a second father. Plus, forty-something is _not_ old. You’re just making up excuses because you’re scared.”

“Tsk, me? Scared? Ludicrous.”

John smiles at Sherlock’s flushed cheeks.

“You are scared because you have never had a real relationship, and you’re scared of being a dad, and you’re scared of ruining our friendship. I would be lying if I said I am not scared of these same things. But Sherlock I- ”

John stops in his track. He can’t say it. He had shoved it down, repressed it so deep inside of him that he had convinced himself Sherlock was an emotionless robot. He can’t say it now. It feels too real.

“You can’t even say it, John. This is stupid.”

John bites the inside of his cheek, and buries his face in his palms.

He needs to say it, prove to Sherlock he is serious. But a simple ‘I love you’ won’t be enough.

“Sherlock. I. I have been in love with you since day one. Since the moment you cured my limp. I have silently loved you for all this time, it was always you. From the start. I have never felt, and never will feel, what I feel for you. I didn’t kiss you back in that alley because I want us to kiss _for real_ , please believe me when I say that I… Listen, I am not good with words but Sherlock: I fucking adore you. You’re the most impossible, beautiful, ruthless, genial, wisest, best person I know and ever will know.”

Sherlock blinks at him, astounded. He gets up and takes John’s hand, guiding him to the room, where it is dark.

“I… I can’t do it with the lights on,” Sherlock murmurs, then he cups John’s face in his big hands.

_It’s happening_ , John thinks, his heart beating fast and so loudly he is scared Sherlock might hear it.

Their lips press together. Once. Twice.

It’s the end of an era.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! 
> 
> leave a comment/kudos if you liked this!! 
> 
> P.S.:@ julia: I love you baby I hope you enjoyed and that you liked the fic. happy (almost) 17 months together <3
> 
> (ah, I forgot earlier!! my tumblr is @clarimasu)


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